


Love Like A Diamond On An Endless Chain

by connerluthorkent



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Old Age, Post-Episode: s05e12 The Beginning..., Tooth-Rotting Fluff, author is not responsible for any dental work needed as a result of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23858494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/connerluthorkent/pseuds/connerluthorkent
Summary: Ed proposes to Oswald on an errant Tuesday morning, while they’re lying naked in bed together.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 52
Kudos: 178





	Love Like A Diamond On An Endless Chain

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (one day after) Gotham finale anniversary! I’ve had this sitting in my drafts half finished for probably four months now, so I decided to try and give it a clean up and publish it in honor of the finale ‘versary. Missed the mark just a little bit, but this fic is still very much in celebration of the show and the lovely fandom around it. <3 Here's to many, many more!
> 
> Title adapted from _Endless Chain_ by Tanika Charles.

Edward Nygma's high-heeled boots are lined up at the bottom of his closet, just below a row of his glittering green suits. Sometimes Oswald has to pinch himself to make sure this is really real, that he isn't going to wake up to the cold, gray walls of his cell and realize that this has all just been some overly indulgent fantasy he dreamt up at Blackgate.

They’ve been together four months now, after an agonized, long overdue mutual love confession the evening of Oswald’s release from Blackgate and Edward’s Arkham escape. Four months of what Oswald can only call unmitigated bliss, adding more fuel to the fire that this is in fact a dream he’s conjured up on one of those long, lonely nights spent in incarceration. 

Ed, to Oswald's shock and delight, is surprisingly amorous. He pulls Oswald into a kiss after every heist gone right, elated and giggling into his mouth. He holds Oswald's hand as he tugs Oswald through the dirty Gotham streets, giddy to show Oswald his latest project. Which is to say nothing of his more carnal reactions when they're back at the mansion after Oswald has shaken down some goons from a rival gang, or the early mornings when they wake to winter sunlight spilling in through the curtains and whittle away the first daylight hours leisurely exploring each other’s bodies. Ed is, in a word, besotted, frequently drinking in the sight of Oswald with so much open fondness it takes all of Oswald’s willpower not to shy away from his scrutinizing gaze. 

On the nights when they’re both at home, when Oswald hasn’t been caught up late at the club, and Ed isn’t still out galavanting around the city, they’ll retire to bed together, the perfect picture of an old married couple the mere handful of months they’ve spent together undermines. 

For Oswald, there’s something intensely, indescribably intimate about those evenings. Ed, Riddler from top to toe in his garish green suit, bowler hat over his slicked back hair, will disappear into their bathroom, and emerge five minutes later clad in only a thin white t-shirt and green flannel pajama pants, soft hair curling over his forehead, still damp where he’s washed out the product. He’ll give Oswald a warm smile as he slips into bed beside him, pressing a chaste goodnight kiss to his lips. Apart from the gray at his temples, he looks almost exactly the same as he had when Oswald first met him. Ed as no one gets to see him, not anymore. No one but Oswald. 

It’s everything Oswald has ever hoped for and more. More, Oswald knows, than he could ever deserve. 

He can’t help the terrible, clawing feeling of waiting anxiously for the other shoe to drop. 

  


“We should get married,” Ed suggests nonchalantly one of those early mornings in bed, not even looking up from his crossword as he lounges luxuriously next to Oswald, completely naked.

It takes everything in Oswald not to spit his tea all over the front page of the _Gotham Gazette_ in shock.

“I’m sorry. I must have misheard you,” Oswald says, coughing to clear his still burning throat, “I thought you just said we should get _married_.”

“I did,” Ed replies, as though it’s the simplest, most obvious, most _logical_ thing in the world he could have said.

He sneaks an almost shy glance up at Oswald's gobsmacked expression, dark eyes studying him carefully. 

“I'm not just being besotted,” he promises, rubbing a hand over Oswald's equally naked middle, “though I am _very_ besotted. It’d also just be practical.”

Oswald raises his eyebrow, curious.

“Spousal immunity,” Ed explains, “they couldn't force us to testify against each other in court. Honestly, I should have thought of it before we were incarcerated.”

Leave it to Ed to come up with a perfectly logical motivation for marriage.

“Oswald?” Ed says.

He peers up at Oswald expectantly over the rims of his glasses, the frames having slid down the bridge of his nose to perch precariously at the tip. Oswald’s fingers twitch with the urge to push them back into place for him.

Oswald opens his mouth once more to speak, but finds no sound comes out.

Of course, he _wants_ to marry Edward. Desires nothing more, really. 

He’s just been caught totally off-guard, and, well. He’d expected something with a little more _ceremony_ , if it ever happened. A lengthy confession, with time to formulate the pitch-perfect response. Perhaps to even be the one doing the proposing himself.

Ed leans up and presses a reassuring kiss to the corner of his mouth, rousing him from the contemplative silence he hadn’t realized he’d fallen into.

“Promise me you’ll at least think about it, alright?” he asks, conversation tabled for now as he turns back to his own section of the paper, absently filling in the four-letter word for “Picasso’s passion.” 

_Amor_. 

  


As Oswald anticipated, things _had_ been too quiet. Too easy. Too peaceful. It had made Oswald jumpy, waiting for it all to come crumbling down around him.

So, of course, it does.

People fight. _Couples_ fight. Oswald knows this, perhaps better than anyone. Hell, he and Ed had practically made a _pastime_ of it, in years past.

It still doesn't stop the sickly dread from pooling in his stomach after his and Ed's first big row post-Arkham and Blackgate.

The thing is, they hadn’t really fought, not up until then. Sure, they’d bickered and squabbled and, god knows, gotten on each other’s nerves, the same as they always had.

But they’re middle-aged men, now. And their fights are notoriously deadly. They both know that well enough. Oswald faces the possibility of death in his line of work more than enough for a man of his age. He’d really like to avoid it at home if at all possible. Doesn’t particularly fancy another miraculous resurrection from the beyond.

So he tries to quell his temper as best he can. Tries _not_ to fight, not in anyway that really _matters_. He sees Ed doing the same, backing down from things that once would have made him fly off the handle, go in for the low blow. 

And, the truth is, the ten years apart have sanded rough edges, softened their memories of each other. Oswald had forgotten, after the rosy tinge of wistful longing had curled around all his memories of Ed, how stubborn, how irritating, how absolutely infuriating he can be. How firm Ed can dig his heels in when he’s decided that he’s right. Which, admittedly, is basically _all_ of the time. 

Their first blow-out spat is, predictably, about the Bat.

And Oswald understands it. He sympathizes with Ed’s compulsion to see that nocturnal fiend that’s been terrorizing the streets of Gotham unmasked and put in his place once and for all. 

But as badly as Oswald _also_ wants to take care of their little bat problem, from where he’s standing, Ed’s deliberate attempts to antagonize that overgrown flying rodent have only served thus far to exacerbate the situation. Ed has grown increasingly fixated, borderline _obsessed_ with solving this latest riddle that Gotham has presented him, and Oswald is struggling to curb his growing frustration at his partner’s preoccupation. 

When Ed’s nighttime escapades earn him a cracked jaw and Oswald the Bat crashing through the skylight of the Iceberg Lounge, Oswald’s already shaky patience promptly abandons him.

“For such a smart man,” he seethes, violently shucking off his waist coat as he stomps into the parlor, “I really don’t understand why you insist on behaving like a reckless, foolhardy moron!”

He spins around just in time to catch Ed’s eye roll, his arms folded across his chest like a petulant teenager. His eyeline remains up towards the ceiling, ignoring Oswald’s gaze.

Oswald marches up to him, puffing up to his full height as he jabs a finger hard into Ed’s chest.

“Do you want to get sent _back_ to Arkham?” he asks, voice laced with faux patience dripping in condescension, as though speaking to a misbehaving child. “Because I’d like to remind you that it’s taken my entire _team_ of lawyers to keep them from locking you up back there in the first place!”

Ed still refuses to meet his gaze, staring stonily over Oswald’s head, jaw locked as tight as a steel trap. Every time Oswald catches the bruising around Ed’s chin in the low firelight, he feels his own jaw set even harder. 

When Ed’s eyes finally do drop down to his face, they’re black as night and as inscrutable as two glassy marbles.

“Oswald,” he drawls, and it’s a tone that would usually accompany some sly flirtation, but here just packs a cruel edge, “I really don’t know when you turned into such a nagging, suffocating old hen.” 

“Well,” Oswald hisses, sickly sweet, “I’d rather be an overbearing, _smothering_ old hen than an obsessive, hairbrained _idiot_ that seems _determined_ to lend a helping hand in his own hanging!”

“ _Clearly_ ,” Ed scoffs, flicking his fingers at Oswald dismissively. 

“Your carelessness is threatening to destroy everything that you have, Edward,” Oswald says, letting some of his desperation seep into his voice, “and, what’s worse, you seem _determined_ to take me down along with you!”

“The only one destroying things, Oswald,” Ed says, mechanical and flat, “is you and your total lack of respect and understanding for what it is that I’m trying to _do_.”

“You’re right!” Oswald shouts. “I don’t! I don’t understand _useless_ fixation so deep you allow it to cloud all judgment!” 

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Ed replies with a nasty smile, “it’s your cloying possessiveness that destroyed things the first time around, now, isn’t it?”

Oswald rears back as though he’s been struck, the words skirting too close to the things they avoid saying, wounds that have never fully healed.

“Well,” Oswald answers, smile equally as cruel, “if that's the way you feel, perhaps I won't bother resurrecting you the next time your _stupidity_ gets you killed!"

The rage in his body uncoils, so sharp and unbridled, he _has_ to get his hands around something. He turns abruptly away from Ed, reaching blindly for the decanter of Scotch on the side table. Oswald grabs it and chucks it just to the left of the fireplace mantle, glass shattering into a thousand broken pieces that spill across the floor.

When he turns back, he’s alone in the lowlight. 

Ed is gone. 

  


Ed doesn't come home for six days.

Oswald reads about his exploits in the Gotham Gazette. He robs a museum, knocks over the Gotham First Bank, then leads the GCPD and the Bat on a merry chase throughout the city. Oswald sets aside money for bail and calls his lawyer.

He pointedly doesn't scout Ed's usual haunts. Doesn't go by the refurbished Riddle Factory, or Ed's safe house turned lair, or the reacquired 805 Grundy, where Ed sometimes stays when he's detained in the city. He's given Ed his space before. He can still do it, even though his fingers twitch with the need to see him. He has to prove that he can, both to Ed and to himself, if there's any hope of making this work. If Ed even still wants it to.

Ed doesn’t come home, and Oswald tries desperately not to catastrophize, as he faces down the very real possibility that what he knew was too-good-to-be true may have finally ended. That Ed may never come back.

He absolutely does not expect Ed to come stumbling into the parlor on the sixth night, hair disheveled and coat frayed, a thick ring of black around his left eye and a red stripe across his throat. Oswald is doing paperwork for the Iceberg Lounge on the couch, budgeting the repairs for the Bat’s damage from the week before. He’s wrapped up in his father's now ill-fitting golden robe, the fire going quietly in the background when the sound of rapid footsteps stirs him from his work. Oswald tenses in anticipation, wrapping his hand around the handle of the knife hidden in the trick pocket beneath the sofa.

"Ed!" he exclaims in surprise as Ed’s lanky frame appears abruptly in the doorframe, leaping to his feet and then nearly tipping himself back over in his haste.

Ed rushes to his side, instinctively grabbing his left arm to hold him steady.

"I'm alright, I'm alright," Oswald stutters, barely suppressing the urge to wrench his arm out of Ed's tight grasp. Then, he adds, against a lifetime of instinct, "Thank you."

Ed eyes him skeptically, unconvinced, but he relents his vice-like grip, cupping a guiding hand around Oswald's elbow as he eases back onto the sofa. Oswald would find it almost comical, given Ed is the one who looks like he’s a stiff breeze away from collapsing into a heap on the floor, if he wasn’t too busy being distracted by the sheer shock of seeing him. 

Once Oswald resettles, Ed continues to loom beside the sofa, looking cagey, as though unsure if he's welcome to join him.

"Ed," Oswald sighs, exasperated, "please sit down."

Ed drops gracelessly down beside him as soon as the words have left his lips, clearly too exhausted to hold himself up even a moment longer. He looks tired, his crow’s feet more prominent, the bags under his unbruised eye heavy. For all his endless energy and youthful exuberance, in that moment, Ed looks like a man of his age. 

The silence sits, heavy and thick between them

"I didn't know if you'd be back," Oswald confesses.

He tries his damnedest to sound haughty and distant, but his voice wavers in the middle, betraying him as it so often does.

"Don't be ridiculous," Ed says, half-scolding, half-soothing, "of course I came back. I always come back."

Despite his obvious irritation and frustration, the declaration sounds an awful lot like a promise.

Ed hangs his head suddenly, studying his shoes.

"I wasn't sure if I would be _welcomed_ back."

Oswald tentatively reaches out and puts his hand on Ed's shoulder, unsure how the gesture will be received given the circumstances. Ed sighs, sounding tired, but his shoulders relax marginally, and after, a moment's hesitation, he reaches back to lay his hand over Oswald's own.

Oswald has chewed it over, in the days since they’ve been apart. And he’s come to the realization that, in the wake of their newfound intimacy, they've been walking on eggshells around each other, afraid to upset the fragile peace they've finally carved out for themselves. Unsustainable, for two men as difficult and volatile as them, to tiptoe around each other forever.

"You'll always be welcomed back," Oswald says, and this is a promise, no hesitation or reluctance in his tone at all.

Ed strokes a thumb over the back of his hand gratefully. Oswald reaches out with his other hand and delicately cups Ed’s jaw, coaxing Ed to face him. Ed allows Oswald to guide him, nuzzling into his palm before pressing a kiss there.

Oswald sucks in a sharp breath as he gets a good look at the violet bruise splashed across Ed’s left cheek.

“Oh my god, Eddie,” he gasps, Ed wincing as Oswald gently caresses his fingers just below his eye, “the Bat did this to you?” 

Ed only nods in return.

Oswald allows the anger that had been diverted by their last fight to bubble over inside himself, directing his fervor in the right direction this time around. 

“I’m going to have him flayed alive!” he declares dramatically, hand still settled against Ed’s face even as he rants. “Dropped in a vat of boiling oil, his head chopped off and mounted on a spike outside the club!” 

He recognizes, too late, that he’s fallen into the exact same pattern of zealous, nonsensical protectiveness Ed had accused him of in their fight. He shrinks back slightly with the realization, moving to take back his hand. But then Ed surprises him by grabbing onto his wrist and offering a soft, amused smile. 

“Oswald,” he chides quietly, “it’s really not as bad as it looks. Besides, I wouldn’t want Batman to usurp my place as the Iceberg’s center piece.”

Oswald’s eyes widen at the statement. He has the good sense to look chagrined, but the smirk Ed flashes him holds no lingering trace of malice.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t be nearly as handsome as you, my love,” Oswald replies with his own wry smile. 

There’s a bottle of wine chilling in a bucket at Oswald’s feet, his reward after a long day’s work at the club. He reaches down and fetches a few ice cubes, wrapping them in his pocket square and then offering them up to Ed. His hand trembles slightly as Ed takes it, their fingers brushing against one another. Ed pushes his glasses up into his hair, the strands standing up in disarray as he presses the ice to his face, letting out a relieved sigh. 

Oswald takes his free hand and pulls it into his lap, tracing his fingers over the lines in Ed’s palm. His jagged heart line, his long, crooked life line. As familiar to Oswald as his own. 

“Ed,” Oswald starts, “the Bat, the Lounge, everything, it’s all...it’s all moot, in the long run. What’s important, is—”

His voice wavers slightly. Ed watches him, dark eyes bright in the firelight, attention rapt. 

"I just don't want to lose you, again."

Ed squeezes his hand, giving him a frayed smile.

"I don't want to lose you either."

It's not an empty promise that he won't, but instead a confession of mutual feeling, an acknowledgment that he isn't alone. That's all he can ask from Ed. Far more, really.

Oswald rubs at his eyes, tired.

“I’ve realized, in the week we’ve been apart, it all...feels like a little bit _less_ , when you’re not around,” he admits.

His own words echo back at him across space and time. 

_What more could someone ask for?_

_Someone to share it with._

He has to bite down on his lip to keep from cursing out loud at his own foolish vulnerability. He _never_ learns, not really. Not when it comes to Ed.

Fingertips brush over Oswald’s hairline, reverent and tender, and he has to keep himself from jerking in surprise as he looks up into Ed’s eyes. 

“For me, too,” Ed confesses.

The look Ed gives him is unbearably soft, and it takes all of Oswald’s willpower not to hide his face away from Ed’s dark, knowing eyes, that piercing gaze that sees every part of him.

Ed continues massaging Oswald’s scalp gently, and the silence finally settles, stretching comfortably between them. Oswald can’t help the slight frown that marrs his face as he studies Ed's cheek, the darkened skin seeping out from around the edges of Oswald’s handkerchief pressed against his eye.

Ed’s lips twitch, amusement slowly creeping over his face.

“You’re trying not to nag,” he says, stifling a laugh.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oswald answers, voice laced with haughty self-deprecation, “I never nag.”

“I like that you nag.”

Oswald rolls his eyes.

“I do!” Ed laughs, defensive. “Just because I resent it doesn’t mean I don’t like it. I just don’t always know what to do with it. I confess, it’s not a form of affection I’ve had much experience with.”

Oswald sighs, leaning into exasperation to cover up for the slight pang in his chest at Ed’s confession.

“You are a difficult, difficult man, Edward Nygma.”

“I am,” Ed concedes, eyes sparkling in the firelight, “you love that about me.”

He’s fishing, but, for once, Oswald doesn’t mind taking the bait. Not when it’s as true as it is. 

Ed _is_ an insufferable, contradictory paradox of a man. But the ten years apart have thrown into sharp relief that Oswald is more than willing to put up with any and all of it, if it means he gets to spend the rest of his days by Ed’s side.

“I do,” he admits without hesitation. “I do love that about you.”

“Well, I love your nagging,” Ed says, kissing Oswald’s knuckles, “even when I hate it.”

Oswald huffs, finally conceding to Ed’s pestering.

"Honestly, Edward,” he dutifully chides as he reaches up to take the ice and press it more firmly against Ed’s upper eyelid, “what do you want? To lose an eye of your own?" 

Ed has the good grace to look chastened, even if a slight grin does play around his lips. Then he dodges Oswald’s hand swiftly, leaning down to press a quick, tender kiss to the discolored skin just below Oswald's right eye.

"You'll smudge my mascara," Oswald complains, no real heat in his voice.

“I thought you were ready for bed?” Ed asks, glancing down at Oswald’s robe in bemusement.

“That’s no excuse not to look one’s best,” Oswald replies, affecting an overexaggerated prissiness.

Ed laughs and tugs playfully on his sleeve, pulling him forward until he falls softly against his chest. As Oswald cuddles against him, getting comfortable, Ed wraps one long arm around his shoulders, pressing his cheek against the soft, downy nest of Oswald’s hair.

“Want to hear about my run-in with the Bat?” he murmurs, giddiness seeping into his tone.

Oswald sighs, faux put-upon.

“If I must.”

So they snuggle up in front of the fireplace together, just enjoying their return to each other’s company. Ed catches Oswald up on all his exploits in excruciating, animated detail. Oswald listens dutifully, oohing and aahing in all the right places as he doozes lightly against Ed’s shoulder.

For the moment, it’s enough.

  


Oswald has almost drifted off, curled comfortably against Ed’s side, when Ed gently nudges him awake.

“Oswald?”

“Wha—?” Oswald groans, letting out what he recognizes is an extraordinarily unattractive snort as he comes back into consciousness.

“Are you awake?” Ed asks, voice low.

“I am _now_ ,” Oswald grumbles, sitting up as he attempts to wipe the grogginess from his eyes.

"I got something for you,” Ed says by way of explanation, “while I was away."

Before Oswald has a chance to ask why it can’t wait until morning, Ed is spinning off the couch and dropping down to his knees in one swift motion. The firelight casts shadows across his sharp features as he takes Oswald’s hand in his. 

Oswald blinks blearily down at him, uncomprehending. Then he notices that Ed’s other hand is held aloft, extended out to him. There’s a little black box perched in his palm. 

“Ed,” Oswald demands, agog, his voice high with strain, “...what are you doing?”

“I am endless as a chain,” Ed recites. “Once you have me you are bound for life. I fasten two people, yet only touch one. What am I?”

Then he flips open the lid of the box to reveal a large purple diamond set in an intricate antique silver band.

Oswald chokes off a sharp retort about being woken up in the middle of the night to answer a riddle as his eyes settle on the glittering jewel, comprehension dawning.

“It’s a wedding ring,” he blurts in disbelief, gaping down at it. 

“I’m sorry,” Ed apologizes, eyebrows pinching together seriously, “I should have had a ring to give you. Before. A proposal should be romantic. That’s what you deserve.”

“I deserve a lot of things,” Oswald quips, deflecting, trying desperately to keep the edge of anxiety out of his voice, “not all of them are good.”

“Oswald,” Ed says with a conviction that Oswald feels in his bones, “I want it to be our schemes. Our city. Our partnership. _Our_ life. Not because it’s convenient, but because that’s what I _want_. Squabbles and all.” 

He squeezes Oswald’s hand.

“If you’ll have me?”

Oswald’s jaw hangs open, rendered speechless once more. He’s no better at this the second time around than he was the first. 

“Unless of course,” Ed falters, beginning to shrink in on himself as he’s confronted with Oswald’s silence once more, “I’ve miscalculated. Perhaps you don’t—perhaps you aren’t interested in—”

Oswald makes a desperate grab for the hand slipping away, cutting him off.

“Of course I am, you ridiculous man. If _you’ll_ have _me_.”

“Oswald,” Ed says, breathless, “I’ve wanted nothing else for a very, _very_ long time now.”

And Oswald can resist the urge no longer. He leans down, cups Ed’s face in his hands, and captures his lips in a hungry, lingering kiss.

After several long moments, Oswald is finally forced to pull away for air, Ed’s mouth chasing his where their lips part. But Oswald doesn’t go too far, keeping their foreheads pressed firmly together, his hand still on Ed’s cheek.

“You should stay like this. Perfect vantage point for kissing,” he teases, pressing his lips to the tip of Ed’s nose.

Ed hums, smirking knowingly. 

“You always did enjoy me on my knees,” he replies, eyes sparkling mischievously.

Oswald’s hand shoots out swiftly, pinching the soft skin under Ed's arm for his cheek.

“Ow!” Ed laughs, squirming away from his touch. 

They grin at each other, basking in the glow of the moment.

“Well,” Oswald says, impatiently thrusting his hand out to Ed, “go on, then. I want to see it on.”

“Oh! Of course!” Ed exclaims, apologetic, standing as he clumsily takes the ring out and begins slipping it onto Oswald’s finger. “Forgive me.”

“I always will,” Oswald sighs, but his smile is fond.

Ed slides the ring delicately into place, Oswald admiring the way the gem sparkles in the firelight. It’s large, not garish but certainly decadent, and a dark, deep indigo that speaks of royalty, of extravagant wealth. 

Oswald imagines it was _exorbitantly_ expensive. A testament from Ed to Oswald’s own lavish taste, no doubt.

“Ed,” Oswald says after a moment, brow furrowing as he eyes the purple diamond pensively, “this isn’t _stolen_ , is it?”

“No!” Ed blurts, waving a placating hand in the air. “No, of course not!” 

He cocks his head to one side, considering. 

“Some of the money I used to purchase it might have been,” he admits, “but _it_ definitely wasn’t.”

Oswald huffs out a laugh, shaking his head at his partner’s antics. He squeezes Ed’s hand again, appreciating the way the ring seems to almost glow against their skin.

“I have something for you, as well,” Oswald says, trying to keep his voice from shaking with the tad of urgency that makes its way into his tone. “Wait there.” 

Ed’s fingers cling to his as he crosses the parlor, as though reluctant to lose Oswald’s touch for even a moment.

Oswald steps into the portrait room, his father’s kind gaze upon him as he goes and fetches the little box from a vintage chest of drawers, thrusting it roughly into the pocket of his robe.

When he returns, he finds Ed still standing in place, rocking slightly onto the balls of his feet. There’s an infectious thrum of nervous anticipation in the air, radiating off of Ed to reverberate in Oswald’s own chest.

Oswald approaches Ed and squeezes his arm lightly, the smiles they offer each other almost shy. 

As Oswald makes to get on his knees, Ed grasps his wrist, holding him at full height.

“Oswald, your leg,” he reprimands, as though Oswald needs reminding.

Oswald huffs, shaking his head, but he can’t help the smile threatening to curl around the edges of his mouth. 

“Fine,” he says, “we’ll have to forego ceremony, then.”

Oswald reaches clumsily in his pocket for the box, his movements jittery, overcome with that sudden bout of inexplicable nerves. 

It’s ridiculous. Ed has just proposed to _him_ , there’s hardly any reason to be truly anxious. And yet, some insecurity lingers, even now. The faint memory of a carefully crafted misunderstanding curling around the edges of his mind. The sharp sting of half-remembered rejection in his chest.

He finally manages to free the velvet box from the fabric, his awkwardness causing him to brandish it with an unintentional dramatic flourish that he’s sure Ed appreciates nonetheless. 

Ed’s eyes widen marginally, dark and glittering with excitement as he catches sight of the box.

“For me?” he asks, breathless and openly covetous, like a kid in a candy shop. 

“Of course it’s for you,” Oswald says, the unease of vulnerability making him brusque. “Go on, open it.”

Ed takes the box carefully from Oswald’s hand, snapping it open. He stares at the emerald ring tucked inside, openly rapturous. 

“Oswald,” he says, reverence in his voice, “it’s perfect.”

Oswald’s cheeks flush, pale skin flushing pink. 

“I’m so glad to hear you think so,” he says, clearing his throat, voice rough with sudden emotion.

Ed shoves the ring impatiently on his own finger, extending his arm and waving his hand to admire the way the emerald sparkles in the dim light. 

Oswald examines the ring on Ed’s finger. Feels the weight of the band on his own hand. It's a reminder, Oswald thinks. Their many differences make those serendipitous moments they're completely in step all the sweeter.

“I suppose, in this one thing,” Oswald says aloud, tilting his head slightly, “we were finally on the same page.”

Ed’s response is to fist his hand into the soft, silky fabric of Oswald’s robe and yank him forward, pulling him into a rough, heated kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue as Ed licks his way into a mouth, and Oswald finds himself sighing, melting into the familiar solidness of Ed’s embrace.

“I’m guessing that’s a yes?” Oswald asks when they break apart, peeking up cautiously at Ed.

“Oswald,” Ed groans, chuckling as their noses brush together, “I just asked _you_.”

“Well, it never hurts to be sure.”

At that, Ed spins Oswald around carefully in the circle of his arms. He wraps one long, gangly limb around Oswald’s middle as he takes his left hand in his, holding them aloft so they can enjoy the sight of their rings side by side.

“We’ve only been together for four months,” Oswald points out, soft and teasing as he burrows into Ed’s arms, “some people might say that’s moving a bit fast.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Ed answers, voice warm where his breath tickles the top of Oswald’s head, “the heart keeps its own time.”

Oswald stiffens a little at the words, the sentiment resounding with a melancholy pang in his chest. 

He thinks the ache should be accompanied by something bitter and resentful. A nasty twist at the knowledge they’ve had to bleed their way to middle age to finally make it here, a fairytale happy ending. But, he realizes, to his surprise, it isn’t. He’s grown with Ed, in more ways than one, over the years. And, after all this time, he’s not sure he’d trade even a moment of it for the steady, easy happiness he feels right now. 

It’s been worth it. Every agonizing, painful step. He’d take every single one of them again to end up here, with Ed, after all this time. 

And, it is to be expected, the pain with the pleasure. As storybook fables go, they’ve always been a bit more Brothers Grimm than anything else. Meetings in dark forests with blood and a body between them, wicked stepsiblings flayed and eaten alive for their hubris. 

So it’s happier than Oswald could have anticipated. Little Red Riding Hood turned out to be a wolf, too, and has decided to settle down with Big Bad, making mischief in their little pack of two. 

“Oswald,” Ed says, a slight apologetic edge to his voice as he turns until they’re facing one another once more, “I know it took far too long for me to realize, and I’m so sorry that it did.”

And there they are, on the same page again, Ed sensing his hesitancy with a perceptiveness that borders on telepathy. After a tumultuous fifteen years of friendship and rivalry and partnership, Ed knows Oswald just as well as Oswald knows him. 

“But,” Ed continues, brushing his lips over Oswald’s cheek, too light even for a kiss, “I spent ten long, agonizing years without you in Arkham. And I never want to be parted from you again.”

“Except when we fight?” Oswald asks wryly.

“No, not even then,” Ed answers, quirking an impish smile. “I suggest we resign ourselves to resolving fights the way all good married couples do.”

“Oh?” Oswald asks, amused. “And how is that?”

Ed ghosts his lips over Oswald’s neck, Oswald shivering as he leans in to whisper into his ear.

“Scorching hot make-up sex.”

The flush on Oswald’s skin dips beneath the collar of his robe, hot like the press of Ed’s mouth against his temple.

“I’d be...amenable to that arrangement.”

“Oh, good,” Ed says, sighing with affected relief, “I was so hoping you would be.”

Oswald elbows him for his impertinence, but doesn’t move away when Ed begins trailing kisses down the line of his jaw. As he glances down at their linked hands, the shock of purple against green hits Oswald once more.

“Edward,” Oswald says, breathless from more than just the press of Ed’s lips against his skin, “we’re engaged.”

“I know,” Ed murmurs excitedly, his delight evident in the scrape of his teeth against Oswald’s throat. 

Then Ed pulls back, just far enough to tug Oswald’s hand up to his chest, pressing it above his beating heart.

“To marriage,” he declares, clinking his ring against Oswald’s in lieu of champagne glasses, “and the next big adventure.”

“And all the adventures left yet to come,” Oswald agrees, barely getting the words out before Ed swoops down and cuts him off with his lips.

As he loses himself in Ed’s mouth once more, Oswald realizes he absolutely cannot wait to see what the _next_ fifteen years have in store.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments, kudos, and keyboard smashes are cherished and welcomed. There were several firsts for me with this fic, including first time writing post-series and first time writing these two as an established couple, so I'd love to know what you guys thought! <3


End file.
